Ice Must Thaw, Else it Shatter
by RhyannD
Summary: What if Leia's reluctance with Han was due to her time on the Death Star?  Mature themes.  New CH 4. I'm dropping them where they belong in the timeline, sorry for any confusion as far as ch. #'s.  Chapters stand alone.
1. The South Passage

There are certain tropes most fanfiction holds to when it comes to Princess Leia. Thanks to the wonders of cable TV, I recently revisited the original Star Wars and Empire for the first time in years. They were transformative for me when they first came out. More than mere science fiction... A more grand, technical western, Shakespeare in space, myth and legend and universal unconscious. In the beginning the good guys wore white and the bad guy wore black and it was simple and fulfilling. And then, just as we were growing up, (and maybe almost thinking we were too grown up,) George challenged us with more darkness and blurred lines than we ever expected... and finally, as we were almost adults and moving into the world, he topped it all off with just that tiny bit of naughtiness, and finished with Good winning after all, at the last possible second.

I've always wondered just why we think (almost universally) that Leia's torture on the death star was less than... complete. The following is not for the faint of heart, nor, probably for those under age. My premise is that it took three years for that first real kiss because Leia was dealing with a trauma as old as humanity, and common to every war we have ever known. There are some missing moments, and some new ideas on moments that we do see.

Chapters will be inserted into the correct timeline, however, each *should* also stand on it's own if I've done my job. ;-p

**Ice Must Melt, Else It Shatter**

1. The South Passage-the Real Story

_(Three weeks before the ill fated patrol on Hoth/first scene of ESB)_

Han Solo scared her.

And Leia Organa hated nothing more than fear, unless it was weakness in her own character. She hated that he scared her. His confidence, his swagger, his... masculinity. Sometimes she would forget. Mostly during those rare, precious down-times when Luke and Chewie were there too; When Han was smart and funny, and she felt like one of the guys. Or when they were working, she in the command center, he on a mission; he might rib her, but never as much when others could hear as in private... But when he'd turn the charm and the wit in her direction, the sudden desire for flight or fight was almost overwhelming. She would wrap her reputation as the Ice Princess around her like a shield, and fend off his interest.

Ice Princess indeed. Appropriate enough for this frozen outpost at the edge of the universe. She was always cold. Even in her insulated thermal uniform, with the enviro controls set to more than reasonable warmth. Sometimes she wondered if she would ever be warm again. When she would finally, finally fall asleep from exhaustion, too often the cold brought her back to the cell on the Death Star. There were no blankets there, just a hard metal bench. Nothing else but metal and black composite. Storm Troopers, Imperial guards without faces, Vader... Cold needles and cold steel jabbing her, jabbing **_into_** her...

Leia sat up with a gasp, gulping air and grabbing for the blaster under her pillow. Quickly her mind clicked back to reality—her quarters on Hoth. A glance at the chrono showed she had slept just over three hours. A half-hour or so gain on her best average so far. Wearily, she got up. She knew her brain would not let her go back to sleep now. In the quiet, darkest and coldest hours of the night, she could not keep her thoughts from the tiny particles of star dust that used to be a vibrant, living planet full of people... Alderaan. Or from the insidious memories of her so-called 'interrogations' on the Death Star. Tortures. Rape of mind, body, and soul.

A single tear escaped despite her best effort. The waves of grief were less frequent now. The first year it was hourly, daily... some time into the second year it was just a couple of times a week. Now, going on three years, though the nightmares were common, the almost incapacitating grief was spread out. There were longer periods where she might even seem to forget. Forget that her entire world was gone.

She would hold her breath and clench her jaw, and will down the bile. She would remind herself that ending her existence herself was not an option, it was a coward's way out. She wrapped the mantle of her office—now strictly symbolic, yet a symbol important to the morale of the rebellion—she clung to the protocol and the _ideal_ of the Princess and Senator of the house of Organa, of the late planet of Alderaan... an appointment without premise... she clung to the dignity, because it was the only thing between her and despair.

The carved out corridors of Echo Base were quiet as she moved into them, heading for the Command Center. Third shift, so aptly nicknamed 'the graveyard shift,' was wrapping up with paperwork and winding down; First shift had yet to arrive. When she heard steps enter the South Passage behind her, with a sinking feeling she knew who it was. Without looking behind her, she tried to quicken her pace, without appearing to run away..

But those long legs caught up. "Mornin' Your Worship, you're up early."

Leia bristled at the title. She knew he only kept up with it because she rose to the bait. Despite the knowledge, she couldn't help herself. "Am I Captain? You are too, then... or is it late rather than early for you?"

"Nah..." Han grinned at her reply. Sometimes he saw her slipping away to that place of sorrow so deep he wasn't sure she would find her way back. But when she sparred with him, when she matched him wit for word, there was a spark. Then, he saw the spitfire who hauled him into a trash compactor. "We're pushing hard to get the Falcon done. I was going to check with Command to see how I could fit in a patrol around the work that takes both me and Chewie."

Leia realized she was still almost jogging. Since Solo was keeping stride easily with her, she slowed her pace somewhat. She couldn't stop the sadness that his words brought her. Somehow she let herself believe this day wouldn't come. She was so busy just getting THROUGH each day, sometimes the actual passage of time escaped her notice. And while he scared her on one level, on a more elemental level, he had become part of the fabric of this new existence of hers.

"Han..." she paused, searching for the right words. Before the thought could finish, there was a low groan and an echoing *CRACK* above them.

In the way of the human mind in crisis, time stretched and folded around them. Leia slowed her steps, almost halted, trying to register the sound. Han, rather, reacted with the instincts of a pilot and a gambler used to calling out cheats—he grabbed Leia by the upper arm and practically lifted her airborne.

The ice granted them the time between three heartbeats, begrudged them the next. Han curled himself around the Princess as much as possible-which was considerable since she was just about half his size—his arms tucking behind her to break their landing. The roof of the tunnel came down in several large chunks, pressing against Han. Due to the size of the piece, the weight was spread out; Han was spared injury as far as he could tell, but was well and truly buried.

Leia felt the grip on her arm, then the crushing weight on top of her, and promptly began to hyperventilate. Blind panic consumed her, in full flashback to the Death Star.

"Leia... LEI-a" Han's voice broke, the pressure of the ice denying him room to breathe.

"_**LEIA**_." His heart stumbled, something unfamiliar in his gut clenched.

How badly was she hurt? He thought he had cushioned her fall, but had she hit her head? Broken ribs? In the dim, grey misty light he could just see her eyes, squeezed shut. He wiggled in the confinement as much as he could, his body covered hers completely, her head tucked into the space between his shoulder and chin. He was able to just get his right arm freed from beneath her.

"Leia... " The ice only spared him centimetres, he gently probed the back of her head, seeking injury...

There was nothing, still her breathing was ragged, gasping. He couldn't move his weight any further off of her, if it was her ribs... he strained his ears to hear if help was arriving yet. He knew there would BE help, but he had no idea how big the collapse was or how long it would take them.

"C'mon, breathe for me... Leia..." He stroked her hair, the only small movement the ice granted him.

It was her name that brought her back.

No one ever called her just Leia any more.

In the military setting, rank was everything, and as the token figurehead, everyone saluted her and recognized her by the obsolete title, despite her work right alongside the troops.

"Leia..."

The blackness called at her, but though the hardness beneath her was cold, the weight on top of her was warm.

Hot breath in her ear, but it whispered a supplication, rather than panted or grunted... "Leia..."

Han? That was Han's voice. But something was wrong. He sounded... wrong. He was pleading with her.

And calling her by her name. "Leia, breathe... "

With a shuddering sob, she obeyed. And crawled back from the black abyss that consumed her.

Hoth. She was on Hoth. Han and Luke had come to the Death Star and they got out. They got out.

"Leia!" The relief in Han's voice was patent.

As awareness dripped through her, she felt his body, pressing against her, pressing her into the ice beneath her and the edge beckoned again...

"h—Han?"

She was trapped, her right arm against her side, her left arm captive between their chests. She could feel the front of his shirt, the edge of his jacket. She fisted her hand in the fabric, holding on for her sanity; for her life. She felt, (_imagined_?) his lips brush her temple.

"Leia, where are you hurt?" Gentle urgency kept her with him.

"I'm ok... I think..." She felt the cold ice floor, felt where her hip and shoulder might be bruised, but there was no **real** pain. Dimly, she recognized what had happened, remembered the crack and groan of ice shattering, realized Han had taken the brunt of it to protect her.

"Are you..?."

"I'm ok. Just pinned down. We're all right."

He tried again to gain some space, even a few centimetres more, but there was none to be had.

Trying to lighten the mood, he brushed the hair away from her cheek, "I've wanted to get you in this position Princess, but not like _this_."

And just like that, he felt her tense for battle. The hand that had bunched his shirt now pushed against the immovable weight of his chest and the ice pressing down on top of him. Panic had her pushing with all her might against him—but there was no give, nothing he could do. He caught the look in her eyes—or the lack of it—and his heart sank somewhere down toward his stomach.

With a flash it came to him, she hadn't been hurt by their fall, she'd been caught in a waking nightmare.

"Leia... come back to me... I'm sorry Leia, I was kidding... I'd never hurt you Leia... c'mon sweetheart, come back..." He kept crooning at her, nonsense words, softly calling her.

It took slightly less time this time.

First he felt the taught panic release slightly, he felt the shudder go through her petite frame beneath him. He kept up the steady, soft chatter, willing her back... "It won't be too long, they'll have gotten a signal from your comlink, they'll know we're here." He knew she was back when she finally took a deep, shuddery breath. Rather than push against him, her forehead relaxed into his shoulder. "Hey... Leia.. You back with me?"

She felt the shame burn her cheeks, glad he could not see her. She had not had full blown waking flashbacks since just after the first year anniversary of Alderaan's destruction. Most of the time now when she had them, she a least knew I was a nightmare when she woke. But when Han had grabbed her arm in a vice-grip and physically moved her, she was back there.

"Han... " her voice was a broken whisper, "I'm sorry."

"You're sorry? For the tunnel collapsing? I mean, I know you're a Princess and all, but do you command the laws of physics and gravity?" His muscles shook with the effort of trying to take some of the weight off her onto his elbows.

She chuckled softly, he felt her nod slightly in the negative, "For losing it on you."

"Leia," all mocking was gone from his voice, he tilted his head as much as he could, "you're fine, you've nothing to apologize for. Everyone's entitled to a bit of claustrophobia."

"It's not..." her voice caught. His kindness was perhaps her undoing, "It's not that. I, um..."

Han Solo could be infinitely patient when he chose to be. Because it was unexpected, it was that much more compelling a tool in his arsenal. He softly, so softly, stroked her hair in small movements.

Waited.

He'd guessed, though, in a flash of insight three years in the making. A deep rage surged in him a the conjecture. She was so tiny, so seemingly fragile. She never would have had a chance against storm troopers, and probe droids, and... Vader. Her hand fluttered between them, then grabbed on to his shirt again.

He knew. He had to have _known._ He didn't WANT to know, but he did. He'd seen the detention cell, he _knew_ Imperial protocol.

Torture.

And yet, she had survived it, withstood it. He knew they made her watch Alderaan's apocalypse, and still, she didn't give in. How someone so small could contain so much courage...

He remembered her shudder of revulsion when he facetiously suggested she could return to her detention cell if she couldn't stop complaining about her 'rescue.' He inwardly groaned, contrite... shamed.

"How long-how soon- do you think they'll find us?" Leia asked quietly.

"It won't be long. I'm sure they've already located your comlink. It's just a matter of getting to us."

Leia realized she _felt_ his voice as much as she heard it. It rumbled from his chest to hers. Now that she was more in control, the contradictions in the situation began to surface.

The same body that scared her and had sent her into flashback, had sheltered her and probably saved her life. She was actually ok usually with tight spaces, it was the physical contact and the personal restraint that had set her off.

If she could just focus on the fact that this was Han... He claimed allegiance to none, yet once again he had risked his own safety and wellbeing to save another. She wondered how badly he was really hurt, she knew from how he was wrapped around her, _enveloping her_, that he had tried to protect her as best he could. With his own body.

At that moment, the ice above moaned again and shifted. It sounded like a sentient being. Ice, must of course either melt, or shatter when under extreme pressure. The heat of the enviro-units and just plain body heat from the humans had probably melted his section enough to stress the structural integrity, and with the pressure above being just too much, it cracked and collapsed.

Han let out a grunt, though Leia could not discern a change in the small crevasse afforded them.

"Han?"

"It's all right. There's more air now." His words sounded restrained. But he was right, she felt the slightest brush of a breeze now on her face.

The rest of her felt nothing but cold beneath, and warmth and pressure above. Something low in her womb stirred when she discerned the intimacy of their forced embrace. She had never, willingly, been so closely entwined with a man.

A shudder reverberated from her head to her toes, but she WILLED herself to stay with him. She concentrated on the rough hewn fabric shirt beneath her hand, on the familiar smell of spice and soap and... male.. where her head rested in the hollow of his shoulder. She concentrated on the feel of his fingers moving minutely through her hair.

This was Han. He would no hurt her. He might talk a good talk, but never, in three years, had he physically crossed ANY line she had set. She was more familiar with Luke, for goodness sake. Though for some reason Luke did not worry her the way Han did.

She acknowledged the feelings from Luke, she was not immune to crushes... but nothing in Luke stirred her anxiety the way Han did. Luke could swing an arm over her shoulder, or hug her, and all she felt was a certain calming warmth. The merest brush of an arm with Han and she was prickly and panicked. Longing for something just beyond the horizon of her reach, and terrified all the same.

Han heard the rescue crew first. Leia was still concentrating SO MUCH on remaining in the present she did not detect the muffled voices at first.

"We're here!" Han bellowed, the sound assaultively loud in the miniscule space..

And then she heard the fainest, "Captain Solo? Are you with The Princess?"

"Yeah... we're here... we're OK."

'The Princess,' of course, she thought. Not Leia. THE Princess.

And then she felt ridiculous for her ire.

"Hang on just a few more minutes, Leia." Han's voice was soft and confident, rumbling into her chest.

She did hang on: her hand held onto his shirt as if he might disappear by magic from their icy crypt. Her mind held on to the smell of him, soap and spice, the slight tang of machine oil... she concentrated on the texture of his fine stubbled jaw against her temple and cheek; The warm, solid weight of him wrapped around her, covering her, a human shield.

He was leaving soon. That was where the conversation had been going before the sky fell on them. She inhaled again, a scent so familiar, so endearing... she wanted to imprint it on her brain for the long, cold days to come.

His grip tightened on her then. Han felt the shifting against him and knew their rescue was close. He worried still for the slight weight in his arms that seemed far too frangible to take his weight, let alone the ton of ice on top of them. His lips found her temple and his free hand cupped the nape of her neck as the pressure increased, and the space they were occupying shrank for just an instant before opening up.

All too soon, (too SOON Solo? You must be mad from deep space...) it seemed like dozens of hands were reaching for both of them, pulling them apart. Han protested his lack of injury and abundance of feeling FINE. As he was helped to stand, he saw the medical droid scanning Leia. Saw her face pale, noticed her jaw muscles jump. Of course. The newly born rage curled in his belly again.

He shrugged off his droids, and crossed the debris to reach her.

"Leia?" He reached for her hand.

But once again it was his use of her NAME that brought her back to him.

"Leia. It'll be fine now."

For an absurd moment, she ached to be next to him again, for his weight to cover her and press into her...


	2. The Longest Night on Hoth

_(Three weeks after The Incident In the South Passage; The beginning of Empire, after Han has gone after Luke...)  
><em>

* * *

><p>Han Solo was leaving. He really was leaving this time.<p>

Leia Organa was irritated and cross, and would never admit the Corellian Pirate might be the cause of her ire.

It was the relentless cold of this godforsaken iceberg of a planet. She had made the mistake of mentioning her discomfort aloud, and thanks to R2, her meagre wardrobe would be damp for days.

There had been a truce of sorts between herself and the smuggler for almost a week after their little 'incident' in the South passage. That's how she thought of it, The Incident. If she was confused by her memories of his weight pressing on top of her—TRAPPING her, she reminded herself—well, chalk it up to more stress syndrome. If the strongest impression from the accident was the smell of his cologne, and the sound of his voice saying her name in entreaty...

With a sigh of annoyance she refocused on the readouts in front of her. A week. They'd been civil to each other, a sort of agreed, unspoken truce, for a week. But then something had set them off, she couldn't even remember what, and they were back to mutual verbal combatants. Another noisy sigh escaped her involuntarily.

When word reached her that Luke had not returned from his patrol, and subsequently Han had gone back out into the encroaching Hoth night, Leia put on her game face. Then she went to the hangar where the Falcon was housed, and where the duo would return.

They WOULD return. She had to think that way. Luke was perhaps the only male in the Universe that she felt totally comfortable around. She could not explain why, but if he hooked an arm around her shoulders, or put his hand on her arm to escort her, there was never any fear, never a reminder of what men could do.

She was getting used to the eternal state of cold that was Echo Base, but when the shield doors clanged shut, perversely the temperature around her seemed to drop even more. Chewbacca's howl of despair sent shivers up her spine. The ball of dread in her belly threatened to come up.

She didn't move for hours. She had even lost track of how long, when Chewie came over and draped a folded blanket from the Falcon over her shoulders. He stood with her for a bit, but he preferred to keep his hands and mind busy, so returned to working on the always needy starfreighter.

She couldn't lose them. Not this way.

She was trying to come to terms with Solo's leaving. Intellectually she understood he had to pay his debts. He was that kind of man. Even as a smuggler, he was honest, and had an innate sense of justice.

Though he never said as much, Leia surmised that in a way, his mercenary work was just as much a fight against the Empire as hers. Some of his escapes from Imperials were infamous, yet she never once heard of him doing anything that brought harm to the Rebellion. And certainly his skills and experience had gained them valuable parts and supplies since his unofficial union with them.

Their truce had only lasted a week, maybe ten days. And then, she couldn't even remember why, they began pecking at each other again. Somehow that was easier, she had to admit. But he confused her, and brought up feelings she wasn't prepared for.

Sometimes, if she was concentrating on something, she wouldn't hear or sense his approach, and she would turn and he would be _there_, in her space. No one else dared enter that bubble of safety. She would startle at first, and then tension would fill her. A combination of old fears and a new dread, that he would touch her.

That he wouldn't.

On the Death Star, when she had resisted every torture the impersonal droid could manufacture, Tarkin had sent soldiers to her cell. Still pumped full of nerve-stim, the pain they brought with their carnal acts was excruciating. In the end, that is what probably saved her sanity. She could focus on the physical pain, not the debasement.

And when they were done, and she was bleeding and on the edge of consciousness, Vader stood before the crumpled heap on the floor, and she was able to still resist him. She thought she would die then. She felt the cold touch of him inside her mind, and there was nothing left to resist him, so she did the only thing she could, she let go. She gave up.

And in giving up, she won. She kept the secrets in her heart, the one place he had not invaded. Yet.

Somehow, it was the medical droid that seemed the most humiliating. Pushing bacta inside her, injecting her with painkiller and tranquilizer, healing the cuts on her lips, the bruises all over her... bringing her back from destruction. Her mind cried out. Dying was not the worst thing. Coming back could be.

And so it was when Vader held her, shackled, in front of the viewscreen with the shining green and blue of Alderaan displayed... When Tarkin pushed his body up against hers, trapped against Vader behind her, the implied threat there did not touch her. She thought they had done the worst to her. She thought death was the only threat they had left.

She was wrong.

A thousand million screams flashed though her mind, cut off in an instant, as she sat up with a gasp. She must have fallen asleep. She found herself sitting on a packing crate, leaning back against the landing gear of the Falcon, blanket tucked tightly around her shoulders. Her hands gripped it so hard they were sore.

Her heart pounded, and she heard the rush of her blood in her ears. She looked around, the echoes of screams in her cobwebby mind. The icy hanger was still mostly quiet, though a few more mechanics scuttled about, the early day shift.

The worst of the night was over.

Leia searched her feelings, quieting her mind, hoping for some spark of insight about the fate of her two friends. She blamed the dread in her belly on the nightmare. For once, she wished for Luke's gift. But maybe she didn't want to know. As long as she didn't know, they could still be alive...

She left the blanket on the crate, and shivering, went to the mess hall. The thoughts of food had her stomach churning, but she got a cup of hot kaffe for her and a second for Chewie. She returned to the hangar.

Day crew arriving seemed to give her a wide berth. No one would meet her eyes. Chewie had gratefully accepted her gift, but returned to work—although he found something outside the bird to work on.

It felt like dawn would never come, but even before the sunrise, the shield doors ground open, shrieking in protest against the twilight cold. Leia stood. The first speeder was ready, and left immediately. Each minute that followed stretched into a lifetime for Leia. She found herself out of breath, realized she had been holding it.

And then the transmission—no one had thought to turn off the overhead radio speaker where all traffic normally was broadcast- "We've found them, Sir."

A heartbeat, loud in Leia's ears, all work stopped, all eyes turning toward the shield doors, "They're alive."

Leia sat down hard on the shipping crate. The danger wasn't over, they had been out in killing conditions for more than ten hours... but they were alive. A soft touch on her shoulder and she looked up. Chewbacca grinned and let out a joyous howl. Leia face felt frozen as she tried to smile. Chewie wrapped the blanket around her shoulders again with gentle propriety. It smelled like the Falcon, like Han.

A short time later the speeder returned. The pilot climbed out, then Han. His movements seemed slow, awkward. It was not until just that moment that Leia realized how inherently graceful he usually was. And then he was reaching up, nodding negatively to something said to him and appearing to give an order. And Luke's still form was handed over the side of the speeder to him.

Leia's stomach clenched. Even as far away as she was, she saw blood on Luke's face and clothes. But he was here, they could help him...

Han turned, walked the few steps to where medical personnel waited with a stretcher. Laid Luke on the stretcher. As if feeling her gaze upon him, Han stood and looked directly to where Leia sat. Even across the distance, she felt his eyes meet her. A look crossed his face that she couldn't identify, and then just a ghost of his cocky half-grin graced his lips.

Luke would be alright. Just like that, from his look, Leia knew it. Chewbacca started for the group heading for the med center, then paused, turning to wait for her. Shaking off her dread with the blanket that fell from her shoulders, she got up to go with him.

Han stood just outside the observation window, seeming lost. Chewbacca let out a mighty roar and lifted him up off his feet.

"Easy, easy buddy... I'm glad to see you too." Han patted the wookie's arm. His normally velvet smooth voice was rough, cracking, making Leia's stomach clench oddly. She stood back a bit, Han's face was bruised with the cold, his lips slightly tinged blue. When Chewie put him down, he wasn't quite steady on his feet, but masked it by clapping Chewie on the arm again. Leia noticed anyway. Slowly he pulled off his gloves, his fingers waxy white.

"Han, you need to be looked at too." He looked at her, a scowl on his features.

"I'm fine your Worshipness. They need all their attention on Luke right now..."

"At least go change and warm up." Leia worried at him.

"My, my, if I didn't know better, I'd think you cared." Han retorted.

Closing her eyes, reaching deep within her for calm, Leia wanted to rail at him. She wondered at the sudden urge to throttle him, why was she so angry? They were back, safe... why the flash of heat rising in her? Why were they always at odds? She refused to rise to the bait this time, was proud of the steady, calm voice she managed, "We've been over this. Of course I care. I'm incredibly grateful that you found Luke..." His gaze darted away from hers.

Suddenly feeling small and petty, and scared again, she added, "Is he...?"

"He'll be ok." Han sighed, and she couldn't read his rusty voice and weary features. "Got beat up by some kind of creature from the looks of it, and was delirious for a whie, but I got him warmed up as much as I could, and got the emergency shelter up."

"Han..." Leia nodded. She was worried about him, but he'd only fight her. And she was so weary of fighting with him. Wrinkling her nose, she picked up on something that had been nagging at her... "What IS that smell?"

"Uh... maybe cleaning up is a good idea after all." Han avoided her gaze sheepishly.

Before he could escape, Leia surprised herself and reached for his hand. Both her small hands wrapped around his large, cold one. "Thank you." She said, looking him full in the eyes, "Thank you for coming back, and for bringing him back."

For once, Han Solo was speechless. He chalked it up to exhaustion and brain freeze. And then the moment was gone, and Leia had let him go and headed into the med-center. As he turned to go back to the hangar-where he would turn the Falcon's enviro-controls up to their limit and take a real water fresher—Han thought he had begun to warm already, from the inside out.


	3. She Kissed WHO?

(_after Leia kisses Luke on Hoth..._)

Leia Organa was losing her mind.

She strode purposefully down the corridor, in all of her royal splendor and pomp, and realized she was rushing to nowhere. But she was still full of the indignation and inexplicable wrath that had culminated in her kissing Luke in front of Han.

She'd lost her mind... It was the damn _cold _here_._

She had surprised no one as much as herself with her impulsive display of affection. She didn't normally touch people. And people rarely touched her. Not since the jubilation following the destruction of the Death Star, when she found herself wrapped in hugs and spun in joyful relief...

She couldn't remember if anyone had hugged her since then.

It was only her immense, uncharacteristic fit of temper that had her kissing Luke.

Of course, Luke _did_ touch her sometimes. A casual arm thrown over her shoulder, a grasp on her elbow; he was one of only two or three others that penetrated the icy aura around her and entered her personal space. And he never frightened her. Not the way...

DAMN Han Solo anyway! They had parted just this morning on a note of truce, if not peace. But now, this evening, he had to invade her space, and boast of things that were not entirely true. He raised the ire in her and she found herself rigid with rage. How he managed it in just a few short minutes, she would never know. He came into Luke's room in the med center, looking much better than the last time she saw him, and just like that her temperature rose along with her temper.

He had slung a casual, possessive arm around her shoulder and fire burned in her belly. She told herself it was indignation. If there was a soft flutter in her pulse, it was nerves, thanks to the Empire.

Luke was one of the few people in the Universe she felt close enough to, safe enough with, to have even thought of kissing. She slowed her steps, considering the revelation that while she didn't feel anything romantic from the exaggerated peck on the lips... she didn't feel scared either. That was an accomplishment, wasn't it?

Han was leaving, most likely in the morning. She didn't want him to leave on the tail of an argument. She didn't want him to _leave_... She shook her head at her foolishness, of course she wanted him to leave. He did nothing but incite her to entirely unsuitable displays of emotion. She would have to find it in her to be kind to him in the morning. She was, afterall, a diplomat first and foremost. She could do it.

As long as he didn't open his mouth... A long sigh escaped her.

Lost in thought, she found herself at her quarters, without any awareness of how she got there. She had only slept for minutes the long, cold night before. She managed to get her boots off before collapsing on her bunk, still fully clothed. She never remembered falling asleep.

And she slept almost the whole night.


	4. Evacuating Hoth

Leia Organa _hated_ being manhandled.

His strong hand with long, deft fingers had gripped her upper arm upon his arrival in the destroyed command center. He subsequently hung on relentlessly, compelling her through the corridor. Every few steps she tried to shrug out of the grasp, resenting his hold.

"You can stop trying to pull my arm out of the socket, _Captain,_ she snarled. "I gave the evacuation order, I'll go."

She hated being small enough that large men could simply move her against her will. Restrain her. Take her... Her will had been taken from her on the Death Star. Every choice taken from her, every action dictated by her captors. Now, any time anyone tried to oblige her to their wishes, she fought back; sometimes less eloquently than others.

Han Solo didn't spare a glance at the Princess he was dragging alongside him. There were Imperial Troops **in** the base. He would not let go of her until she was safely aboard her transport.

Chaos reigned, but bodies and droids parted in the face of his determined stride down the corridor. Cursing his foolish notion that she might be grateful for his concern for her welfare, he forged toward the hangar.

Suddenly a huge blast shook them off their feet. Han instinctively curled around the Princess, rolling with her, his arms and hands trying to cover and protect her head. Chunks of ice and snow rained down on top of them, but the real avalanche was a few feet ahead of them-blocking the only access to the transport bay. Sparing the seconds to assure himself that Leia was uninjured, Han jumped up to assess the cave in. They weren't getting through or over it.

Leia didn't move for an instant. The crash to the floor had knocked the breath out of her slightly. Solo's weight covered her, protectively, but was off her and moving again before she had time to contemplate it. Before she had time to be afraid of it. The reality of the situation set in. She had been trying to deny it. Had focused on giving commands, calculating losses, planning retreat and evacuation... Sometimes she thought it was a latent suicide wish that kept her in denial. Sometimes she knew it was.

He was risking his life (_again, __**still**_... ) to make sure she got out.

The overhead speakers were silent but for the occasional sympathetic crackle echoing a power beam shot too near a radio or speaker. The last words to come from them coalesced now for her. "Imperial Troops have entered the base..." A delicate shudder trickled from the roots of her hair down her spine.

The fury over being dragged behind the tall Corellian pirate subsided. The quiet chill that began invading her was much more insidious. She had resented his hand on her. She could be foolish in her fears. His hand on her was not one she should be afraid of.

She gathered her composure, scrambling to rise, her temper dissipated in the freezing mist hanging in the air from the collapse.

He notified command he would get the Princess out in the Falcon, grateful he had stood his ground in insisting the freighter be housed in the hangar where the X-Wings and speeders were housed. In one movement he spun, grabbed on to her again, lifted her from her knees, and double timed it in the opposite direction.

This time, he held her hand. She stopped trying to pull away from him.


	5. Bespin Cell

Bespin: After Lando left the cell...

Leia awoke slowly. She had only dozed—as impossible as even that seemed. She kept her eyes shut, delaying the reentry to reality.

They had moved to the floor. It was no colder nor harder than the slab of metal which passed for a sleeping bunk in the cell, but on the floor they could be next to each other. Han rested sitting up, his shoulders pressed to the wall.

Her left cheek lay against his chest. She was on her side, pressing as close to him as possible. She was tucked up underneath his arm, her shoulder snugged securely into his embrace. Her right hand rested on his chest, in the area of his heart. She felt it beating, steady, sure... she felt it under her cheek, she heard his pulse, his breath...

Her entire left side was plastered close along the length of his side. The softness of her left breast pressing against the hardness that was his chest. Her soft belly pressing against the end of his ribs, his own muscular abdomen. Her right leg crossed over him, angling at the point of his hip, bent knee resting against him intimately, calf angling back against the top of his thigh.

His hands...

His left hand rested, covered her tiny one on top of his heart. Fingers meshed together with hers. His right arm wrapped around her, holding her securely to his side. His right hand rested against her right ribs, almost entirely spanning them. His thumb lay perfectly along the bottom curve of her breast.

His hands...

Leia let her mind drift away from the horror that was the present. She had noticed his hands almost from that very first moment. Certainly in the trash compactor when he ignored any sort of protocol, and lifted her to the top of the trash heap while they fought to stop the walls from crushing them. Not moments later, when he gripped her in elation, swung her around, before the brief second when she froze and he realized what he was doing...

His hands when he worked on the Falcon, impossibly adept at tiny movements for hands so large.

His hands when he had saved her life in the South Passage... Probing, soothing. When he had carefully lifted a frozen Luke from the speeder and laid him on the gurney for the medical personnel... When he had grasped her—practically carried her—out of the command center; That grip was compelling, but never had he hurt her.

His hands when he had first kissed her on the Falcon. First, rubbing her sore hand, then sliding up to her shoulders, then the way his hand wrapped around the side of her neck, that thumb finding the sensitive spot just under her ear, then brushing forward to (oh, so gently) hold her still while his lips found hers.

His hands, during all those small moments enroute to Bespin, in hindsight, she realized how deliberate had been the small touches, coaxing her to accept his contact without fear.

His hand, resting proprietarily on top of hers, escorting her, claiming her in front of Lando.

His hand, empty of the blaster so easily pulled from his tenacious grasp, reaching for hers as they faced her worst nightmare come to life. She immediately knew—that gesture of comfort gave him (_them_) away. Vader would know he had a weapon against her. But she clasped his hand as her lifeline anyway.

She felt a tear escape her closed eyes. Now, she thought how foolish her fears were when it came to Han. She had wasted so much time. Those hands could never hurt her. To her disgust, she found herself wanting his right hand to move, wanting that thumb to feather into more intimate territory. How could she be thinking of that NOW?

It was enough that he was still alive, warm and breathing next to her. That in itself was a small miracle. She opened her eyes, though she kept her breathing light and even, not wanting to wake him. She could not waste another minute they had.

She needed to see him. That face that somehow had become so dear to her. Not classically handsome, by any means. A little to worn, too weathered to be considered a heart-breaker. But oh, how that face had grown on her. His eyes, changeable with his moods, with the environment, from brown to gold to green and all the variations inbetween... The mouth with the smile that could fake out politicians and generals; yet the crooked half-grin that was far more honest that would trip her heartbeat up.

Another tear loosed, rolling silently down her cheek. His features were drawn in exhaustion and pain. She wanted to rub at the lines on his forehead and next to his eyes, to soothe him.

She would never forget his screams.

His torture was so much worse than her own had been on the Death Star. _They never even asked me any questions..._ Her torture this time was to hear him and be helpless. To be haunted by her failure and her responsibility for his pain...

She must have made a small sound, or movement, he woke. He didn't move, except for the fingers of the hand covering hers, meshing with hers, tightening again, connecting them. Minutes passed. His right thumb made small, soothing movements against her ribcage, just, just below her breast...

"I'm sorry." She whispered. "I didn't mean to wake you."

He moved then, just turning his head so his lips found her temple. "Don't be sorry. Not for me."

More tears rolled silently down her cheek, she was ashamed at the sign of weakness. But too late had she come to this knowledge, too late had she discovered...

He had melted away the ice that surrounded her, slowly, ever so slowly working at it. He had known that too much pressure and the ice would shatter. Instead, he used heated looks, brief but scorching touches. He knew—he must have known what really happened on the Death Star, or else why would he have employed tactics so patient and subtle? And his tactics had worked, because she hadn't expected him to be patient and subtle.

A hand at the small of her back when escorting her, or letting her go ahead of him in tight quarters. A touch on the arm or shoulder, just as casual and affectionate as touching Chewie... laughing when there were moments to savor laughter; smiling at her, at HER. The too few, too brief stolen kisses... after the first kiss, he would just touch his lips to hers, or to her forehead, then retreat before she had a chance to freeze up or be frightened.

With a low grunt, he readjusted position, bringing her with him, so he could pass his lips over her tears. His right hand now rested lower, thumb spanning her waist, fingers skimming across to her belly. The curl of heat in her womb and sudden urge to move into those fingers astonished her. She never thought she would respond THAT way.

Never thought she _could_.

And here she was wanting to slide across him until she was on top of him, her hands aching to learn more of him, her lips yearning to taste him...

Helluva time to find out.

He had been tortured just a few hours ago. His chest and belly showed burns and bruises. His wrists above those beautiful hands were raw, bruised and bloodied. They had no idea if they still had time together—it might be moments, or hours, the only sure knowledge they had was their time together was finite.

And the Ice Princess had finally melted. Somehow, she felt that this was Vader's greatest revenge. Worse than raping her mind and body and soul; she had found she could overcome that and love again; Only to have it torn from her. She was safer when she didn't care. If you didn't care, it didn't matter when they left.

She had endured so much, she was so tired of being strong, she wasn't sure she had it in her to survive this time. She had fought and clawed and crawled her way through the loss of everything—her family, her friends, her very planet... her innocence, figuratively and literally. She just was not sure she had anything left.

Ashamed of the selfish train of her thoughts, ashamed of the reaction of her tortured body and mind, she turned her face into his chest. Inhaled his essence, trying to memorize him.

She felt him tense just seconds before the door slid open. Insolently, he deliberately relaxed, gently keeping her in his embrace for a few last seconds.

"I guess it's show time."


End file.
